


f_is_for_faith.rar

by SongsofSamael



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, But also, M/M, Mr. Robot - Freeform, True Blood References, True Blood Universe - Freeform, True Blood Universe tbh, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4590099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongsofSamael/pseuds/SongsofSamael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Mr. Robot took place in the True Blood universe. To a degree.<br/>* Some mature language & themes.<br/>Narrated from Elliot's point of view, with some obvious Tyrell/Elliot skewing because I am in fact nothingbuttrash.jpeg.<br/>Please enjoy. I'll try to determine if this is one shot or a series later. I may make it a series of shorts depending on whether or not I have further inspiration.<br/>Thanks!</p>
            </blockquote>





	f_is_for_faith.rar

The first thing I notice about his house is the cold.

Vampires don't need to heat their houses in the winter months, but they could still make a show for the rest of us. Since they "came out", it's made life that much more difficult for "lesser" supernaturals. People like me. 

I stamp my feet free of snow and revel quietly in watching the phoenix-patterned oriental rug gather sludge and sandy grit. What kind of pretentious fuck keeps an oriental rug in his front hall anyway?

My eyes drift across the minimalist walls up to the ceiling, upon which a modest chandelier on a Swarovski crystal chain dangles ominously. It answers my question as it catches the light: 

A RICH pretentious fuck, of course. 

He doesn't keep me waiting long. He can sense me as soon as I enter the house. Same as when we ran into each other at work. His eyes locked on mine and he just knew.

That's the problem with people like him. Vampires. CTOs. They always know.

He emerges from the dark in a cloud of enigma, Armani, and cologne he knows makes my nose burn. It churns my stomach to be this close to him. His charming smile is a ruse to hide his fangs. There's blood under his nails he missed earlier whilst scrubbing up. Not a white gold hair is out of place. He spreads his hands in welcome and all I'm reminded of is a bat unfurling its wings. 

"Elliot," says Tyrell brightly. "Glad you could make it."

I have repulsion the instant he says my name. It seems vile. Inconsiderate. As inconsiderate as the fact that he pretends to be something other than who or what he really is. Any monster can wear a human guise, but it takes a special kind of horror to be...this. 

"Hey." It's a lukewarm opening, but I don't want to give him much to work with. It doesn't matter. Coincidentally his smile widens and Tyrell lays hands on me, ushering me deeper into his den. His horrible, opulent den. 

"So glad you could make it," the Swede says sweetly. When he breathes, it's a wave of spearmint, coffee, and blood. My stomach jolts, threatening to heave. His lips brush my ear a little too close for comfort, and it's all I can do not to flinch. His laugh is a ghost in my skin.  
"Lighten up," he says, more a command than a suggestion. Even avoiding his magnetic stare does little to assuage the influence of his velveteen voice. I can feel my shoulders slip; my hackles and guard drop. He smiles and I catch it out of the corner of my eye. It's infectious and cold sunshine, glimmering dimly in the dark. 

His wife; Joanna, who had sprawled herself magnanimously in a nearby doorway watches as we walk by. Her green gown wraps around her in a scaly serpent of fabric and deceit. Her smile is fanged. I avert my eyes and dig my nails into my palms. I focus on the internal ticking of a lunar clock. I focus on my pulse. Tyrell's footsteps are soundless. I avoid looking anywhere but directly in front of myself. The house makes me feel small. The wife makes me feel small. 

I have to wonder how the story went: did he fuck her and kill her? Kill her and fuck her? Did I have this backwards?

The way she laughs as she shuts the French doors of the room she stands in is answer enough. It's colder here than it is outside and I find myself itching for the outdoors.  
Clustered and congested as the city is, I would rather be able to gauge the cage I'm pacing in than be surprised by a new habitat. 

"The new security system should be easy to activate." I fill the void of my own footsteps and breath as well as Tyrell's lack of. He smiles knowingly as he walks to my immediate left, purposefully slowing his strides to match mine. "You'll be able to detect any life form in a fifty yard diameter. And dead form," I add. Political correctness pulls another guttural chuckle out from under fine silk and black Egyptian cotton. “I—have it ready.” My voice shakes. The drugs I use to cope with my condition cause rifts in my ability to focus. They delete my code, as it were. Before this, I was—wasn’t much different. I was less than I am now, but still…me. I was still this. I could still exist and create.

And control.

Now the control had been taken from me twice over. Every month I trash my own self and start anew. I delete and reboot. I rip apart my own coding and have to build from the bare nakedness up. I feel like he knows this. I know he’s seen what I am. It’s why I’m here.

It’s why he trusts me.

"Then follow me," Tyrell says, and I have to bite back sarcasm in the form of a silent "what was I doing before?"

He pulls a door open I must've missed in my initial study of his home's blueprints. The door emits a cold wave of air that stinks of dank decay and wine. Bat droppings. Cliche shit.  
He turns to pin me with a smile sharper than his ruby tie pin, motioning languidly to the stairs that lead, no doubt, to his legendary Bat Cave. 

"Shall we?" Again, more of a command than a suggestion. I make the mistake of eye contact and find light blues brighter than wintry sunlight pulling me in. Pulling me down. Every nerve sings. This is better than heroin. Better than any opiate. It's better than Oxy and Vicodin. It's better than morphine. Better than sex and oh, shit. Oh shit I'm going to have to fuck this corpse. 

I dismiss the thought almost instantly. The mission is key. The moon is waxing; not full. I am in control. I can control myself. I can see this through to the end.

We are not their playthings. We are real. 

We matter.

We sojourn down into the basement and I feel like I'm walking deep into a circle of Hell Dante himself couldn't drum up. Everything is cold except for me. The lower we go the more ice Tyrell seems to emanate. I think it's my overactive imagination (something my shrink says has to do with disassociation following a brutal trauma--gee. Can't imagine to what she's referring), till I watch his features pale. His eyes sink deeper, his angles sharpening. He is suddenly sharp teeth and shadowy nooks, and his scent has shifted to tones of musk and cloves. 

I want to backpedal so hard I rip out of my skin and shed human bullshit for the woods. "The woods". More like Central Park but I'll take what I can fucking get at this point. 

"Here," he says. I blink, and we have come to a standstill in front of a massive...basement computer. Surrounded by shining speakers and upholding no more than five monitors, it's a beast of a machine. I can see the details of his gardens, his luxury apartment. The streets surrounding. I finger the little flash drive containing the code he thinks will save him and wonder whether or not this is going to work. 

(Mr. Robot has assured me that the elimination of the elite vampire species is necessary to the survival of humans and other supernaturals alike. I can sense my own doubt in the sweating, shaking fingers that grip technology like a crucifix. This will burn him. This will save me. I haven't recited prayers since I was turned. I haven't recited prayers with any actual faith since I was four.)

He settles bony hands on my shoulders and I sink into the chair, shivering. He brushes a finger under my left ear, tracing a pulse that's more rabbit than wolf. 

"Elliot," says Tyrell calmly, "whenever you're ready." He smells so fucking good and his hands are soft. They counteract the heat I give off beautifully. He quells it. He sinks me deep into an ice bath of false security and I'm prepared for him to rip out any organ he desires. He'll cut common sense out of me like a kidney. That's what his kind does. 

"Elliot, we're counting on you. We can't do this without you." Dead eyes of one anonymous fsociety look back at me through the computer screens and I watch them as I upload the data from the flash drive into Tyrell's security system. F is for Faith, I remind myself. F is for the place where we all end up. We follow our faith. I will see this through to the end.

The input of the device mimics the way his teeth sink into my neck.


End file.
